The left gunner called out over his mike, “You’ve got three feet on this side. Maybe four. But no more.”
“Maybe two feet on this side,” the right gunner called out. “You’re going to take out some limbs, but I think we can do it. Now let’s not screw around. This place is crawling with grunts. Let’s get going. Let’s bring her down now.”
The pilot concentrated on holding his position, then shifted the huge helicopter two feet to the left. He pushed gently down on the power. The HH-60 immediately began to settle through the trees.
Ammon threw himself across the blowing parachute, then kicked it out of the way to keep it from being sucked up into the turning rotors. The sound of the two jet-turbine engines and spinning rotors beat at his ears. The downdraft nearly blew him over and he had to squint to keep the blowing snow out of his eyes. He tucked his face down next to his chest as he stumbled to the side of the clearing and fell behind the protective cover of the trees.
The soldier was no more than ten feet away. The Ukrainian jerked his machine gun up to his chest and let off a short burst of fire. A flash of light strobed the air, lighting the forest with an unnatural light. The tree limb next to Ammon’s head exploded into a thousand pieces. Ammon turned and ran.
The copilot glanced down at the engine instruments and gave the pilot a quick thumbs up. The mini-guns had fallen silent for the moment. As they settled through the trees, the gunners lost their overhead view, and the enemy became more difficult to locate. A quick muzzle flash strobed through the trees. The right gunner let his mini-gun roll, saturating the area around the muzzle flash with a long burst of 7.62 caliber shells. The tree limbs gave way, scattering in every direction as he fired at the source of the light. The pilot took out even more power. The HH-60 dropped like a rock through the trees, cutting its way down through the broken limbs and blowing leaves.
Ammon ran awkwardly through the pines on the perimeter of the clearing as he watched the helicopter settle through the narrow hole in the trees. Debris and snow blew into his eyes. He felt the air break with a crackle as one of the door gunners opened fire, sending a burst of shells raining down through the forest to impact the frozen ground where the Ukrainian soldier had been. Ammon never looked back to see the result. The chopper was nearing the ground. He could see the look of the door gunner’s face. He saw a PJ standing with one leg on the helicopter’s landing gear, half in and half out of the cabin, a thick canvas belt strapped around his waist. He was waving at Ammon, beckoning him to come. Ammon left the cover of the forest and bolted toward the hovering chopper suspended three feet in the air. The forest lit up with a burst of machine gun fire. Ammon pushed his broken body forward, his arms still tucked in his jacket, his face covered with dirt and red mud. He slipped in the snow and almost fell down. Stumbling forward, he lunged into the PI’s waiting arms. The PJ wrapped his arms around Ammon’s shoulders and pulled him into the air. Another set of hands reached down to grab him. The helicopter shifted just slightly. Ammon was lifted and jerked inside.
The pilots felt the Pavehawk sway. “Go! Go! Go!” the PJs screamed. The pilot pulled up on the power. The helicopter lurched upward through the trees, then quickly disappeared in the night.
EPILOGUE
The Ticonderoga rolled gently with the waves as she sailed south past the port of Izmir. The helicopter landing deck was clear of any aircraft, and a half dozen sailors ran laps on the deck as the ship cut its way through the seas. It was early morning. A heavy overcast, with rolling clouds and thin shafts of virga, reduced the visibility to less than a mile.
Below deck, on the third level, was the ship’s infirmary. Richard Ammon was in room HB-12. The room was tiny, even by Navy standards, with flat, gray walls and steel pipes running the length of the ceiling. It smelled of ammonia and cleanser. A small vinyl recliner sat in the corner. The bed was wider than most. The sheets were navy blue. There wasn’t a porthole, and the lights were turned down.
Ammon was asleep, and had been for the past twenty hours. His face was peaceful in the dim light. A thin sheet covered his body. His bare shoulders lay exposed to the cool air. His arms were wrapped in thick, white cloth and tucked down next to his sides. He was under heavy sedation, awaiting surgery which would come the next day.
A strand of soft hair brushed the side of Ammon’s cheek and he turned his head to one side. Jesse leaned even closer and placed her hand on his shoulder. Her lips barely touched his skin as she whispered in his ear. Ammon stirred once again. Jesse whispered his name. Ammon slowly opened his eyes. A tiny smile spread across his face.
“Jesse… Jesse…” he started to say. His voice was heavy with sedation.
Jesse pulled her face back to look into his eyes while placing her fingers over his lips. “Shhhh… don’t talk,” she whispered. “Don’t talk. Just rest. Go back to sleep if you want to. I will be here. I am here for you now.”
Ammon lifted his head from the pillow. The room began to spin in a circle. His mind was groggy and weak. He blinked several times and then started to say, “But how did you…?”
Jesse cut him off as she pressed her face next to his cheek. “Shhhh… not now. Just lay back and rest.”
“But Jesse…”
Jesse pressed her finger just a bit more firmly against his lower lip. “I will tell you about it tomorrow. Or the next day. We’ll have lots of time.”
Ammon smiled and closed his eyes. A warm feeling spread over his body. She was right. They would have tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that. Time was no longer a factor. He would never leave her again. She would be the first thing he saw in the morning. She would be the last thing he touched in the night.
He lay his head back on the pillow. Within seconds, he was sleeping again.
Jesse smiled and brushed a tear from her eye, then gently lay down next to him on the bed.